Life Is But A Dream
by HourglassDream
Summary: On the blackest day of his life, Simon was hit by a car trying to save a wounded girl. He threw her out of the way, but lost the ability to use both his legs in the process. Now in a psych ward with the girl he saved, Simon tries to recover physically and mentally with the help of Dr. Purnell and his new medical porter, Madotsuki. And he has just the strangest dreams...
1. Chapter 1

Medical Record # SH-M04707 1K-17K (Patient And Legal Copy)

Patient Name: Simon Henriksson.

Location: Sabbatsberg Hospital

Time of Admission: 4 / 7 / 2007 - 2:03 AM – EMS Wing 1-B

7 / 7 / 2007 - 12:10 AM – Physical Rehabilitation Wing 3-C

23 / 8 / 2007 - 12:30 PM Psychological Care Wing 6-A

Head Surgeon: Wilhelm Fedtke Ph.D

Head Physician: Specialist Vilgos Gustaffson M.D

Head Psychiatrist: Dr. Andrew Purnell Ph.D

Age: 19 Years

Date of Birth: 23 / 6 / 1988

Nationality: Swedish

Height: 175 cm

Weight: 68.3 kg

Body Mass Index (BMI) : 22.1

Blood Pressure: 90 / 50 mm/Hg

Blood Type: B Positive

* * *

EMS Transport Summary: One Simon Henriksson was seriously injured in a hit-and-run vehicle attack on the crossroad of Bondegatan 33 & Sara Lidmans Gata 57 while attempting to assist one injured Madotsuki Yumeki, a Japanese national and fellow student of Karlstad University. Ambulance caller Sven Munters had only seen one body, so ambulance unit 20-927 had to fit both patients within one vehicle. Medical Technicians were able to clear air passageways & keep Mr. Henriksson's, Ms. Yumeki's condition from deteriorating critically until they arrived to Sabbatsberg Hospital.

Injuries to Simon Henriksson included femoral fracture, spinal fracturing in Coccyx, Sacrum, Lumbar, and lower Thoracic vertabrae, with the most extensive damage centered in the lumbar. The left lung was in danger of collapsing because the piercing of Bronchioles caused by two rib fractures, but the EMT team was able to clear the airway by..._(Continues __on page 2)_

* * *

Head Surgeon's Report: Simon was very brave throughout the whole procedure. Normally we'd have administered morphine, but Simon's condition was still unstable. We could only permit the use of morphine until after the ribs were put back in place, which took around an hour. We'd next set up the corpectomy, followed by instrumentation. It was the only way to heal the spine, the burst fracture was too large to be restored by other means. After the procedure, we set up an IV bag for a bone scan to be done. Three hours later, we had an MRI and Bone Scan complete. We cut his legs open, took out the bone shards, and then began Intramedullary Nailing.

We kept monitoring him, but when he remained stable for the next two days, we sent Mr. Henriksson out of the emergency wing, and into the Physical Rehabilitation Wing.

On a more personal note, I read the file the EMT team made on him. It was very noble of him, to throw that girl out of the way like he did. If she had taken the full force of that car, she likely wouldn't have even made it past the..._(Continues on page 4)_

* * *

Head Physician's Report: Simon's bones and tendons are all healing just fine, at the expected pace it is taking. Based on a few standard reaction tests, the damage is neurological, rather than a permanent cause of the muscles or tendons. Right now, my job with him consists mainly of keeping him well fed, and making sure his muscles don't atrophy or wrongly settle and damage the healing process.

I haven't been alone in this endeavor. One of the patients by the name of Madotsuki, who herself is also going through some moderate physical therapy, has been making my job a bit easier. She's been there to communicate with and help him when I am with other patients. Mostly she's just taken to wheeling him around and writing in her journal.

I will continue to help him for as long as I can, but I feel as if his mental health is deteriorating, in spite of companionship. He doesn't have any recorded mental or psychological disorders in any records he allowed to be disclosed to me. And yet, I am certain that speaking in sentences only six words or less long is not average for him. I will send him to the Psychological Care wing tomorrow for a check-up. It would not be unusual to be unusual after what he's been through.

Muscularity, BMI, and questioning indicate regular light exercise, Simon is exceedingly normal and healthy for a young boy his age. His blood pressure, however, is slightly below average, but the symptoms Simon would experience from the low blood pressure cannot be isolated and confirmed at this time, due to Simon's current..._(Continues on page 7)_

* * *

Head Psychiatrist's Report: I was reading over reports made by some of my younger psychologist colleagues, when Simon's case crossed my eye. The interview was highly unusual, and the amount of time that had passed between day of incident and the responses were indicative that it was more than a 'mere' automotive collision that caused his psychological trauma. The junior psychologists did not see anything too out of the ordinary. I did, so I took his case upon myself.

Simon's mental schema seems to conceal a delusion that he is constantly alone, or better off alone, and is often trying to make reality confirm this worldview by isolating himself. Simon will occasionally suffer myopic delusions that range broadly in severity, but does not seem to know when or how he does, possibly a side effect of some developmental damage. With Simon's stubborn refusal to go into his history, coupled with his social anxiety and general mood, it is difficult to confirm. I would ask his family, teachers, or even the girl he saved from the accident about how Simon normally is. However, Simon already has a deep distrust of medical personell already, and I do not wish to agitate or worsen his mental injuries. Such a breach of trust in his eyes could make any treatment I attempt largely counter-productive.

Simon seems to have made the beginnings of a friendship with the girl whom he saved, which is interesting in itself considering her psychological history and profile. The girl student, Madotsuki Yumeki, keeps a journal of her dreams, with several sketches detailing her mental escapades. This, coupled with her newfound friendship with Simon, gave me an idea to try a form of cognitive therapy, even if it may just be a slight modification on my Japanese predecessors' work.

I've given Simon a blank book, and reccomended him to write or draw his feelings, urges, bad memories, dreams, anything that causes him psychological discomfort or pain. It is my hope that once he gets them onto paper, we will be able to review them together, and figure out a way for Simon to overcome the vulnerability they give him.

I've additionally given Ms. Yumeki a form to be his medical porter, if she so wishes. It is a bit of a risk, but I believe that rather than the psychological damage accumulating, a confidant may help both parties recuperate naturally, and thus prevent either conditions from..._(Continued on page 10)_

* * *

Simon sat at a table, chewing on some bananas and cold milky oatmeal. Despite being in a wheelchair, he was currently located in the psych ward.

Across from him, a girl with two brown, braided ponytails was drawing quietly but furiously into a sketchbook. She was wearing a featureless white hospital gown, the same as him.

Simon felt the cold and mild-sweet taste of oatmeal soothe the place where he had bit his lip.

Simon took a bite, chewed the banana and oatmeal, and swallowed.

Then the girl looked up at Simon, though for the life of him he couldn't see her eyes, and looked down at the paper, then up, and then back down.

She threw the pencil into a pile of pencils just outside of her pencil case, and picked up a yellow and brown crayon, intensity resumed.

Simon raised an eyebrow, but then went back to his meal, taking half a spoonful of banana with the oatmeal each time.

"You know, you still haven't touched your breakfast. And I'm almost finished with mine."

The girl moved her right hand to the top corner of the book, and lifted up one finger.

Simon shrugged, and delivered another spoon of oatmeal into his mouth, eyes returning back to the bowl of milk and grain.

He did this four more times, before Madotsuki closed the book shut with both hands and put the pencils away.

Simon set down his spoon into his bowl.

"So, another monster?"

The girl went to shake her head from side to side, but left her head looking at the left. She looked back at Simon, scratched her head, and cupped her chin with her thumb and pointer finger. After a good seven seconds, she suddenly shrugged, her hands at shoulder height.

"Well, can I see it?"

Madotsuki nodded. She opened her book and flipped through a couple pages until she found the most recent drawing. Then, she flipped it around for him to see.

It was a tall and lanky alien-looking creature, lacking a mouth and his eyes looking in separate directions goofily, his hands holding a bowl of oatmeal and a banana.

It was obviously mocking him, but the shading looked very nice. Not that he would admit it.

"Ha-ha. Very funny."

He gave the book back to Madotsuki, who picked up another pencil and drew something in under a second. She turned the book around, the binding of paper concealing her face, and there was a very simple face, a curled hand knocked against the forehead, the eyes looking to the side, and a smile with a tongue sticking out at one end. A classic.

"I'm not laughing."

And true enough, he wasn't. Despite his best effort to keep it down, a wide smile played across his face.

And when she lowered the book down, Madotsuki was smiling, too.


	2. Chapter 2

Simon looked at the sterile white of the psych-ward. Bright lights began to dim, this time of night. Eight O'Clock sharp, and the cold angelic walls began to fade slowly into a sense of dark.

Simon didn't know why it scared him. He was no stranger to walking in the dark.

The creaking and squeaking of his wheelchair was the only sound that let him know it wasn't a dream.

"...L-looks like… that time of day again…"

Simon craned his neck a little to the side to get a better look at his porter.

Brown, braided, and dually ponytailed hair. A pair of dark brown eyes. Eyes that felt like looking into two pools of visceral darkness. The mild and reserved features of her face only made Simon notice the eyes more. He felt like he was in a spaceship, looking out into space one morning, only to find no stars there. Two bag-laden pits leading to a void where no thing lived.

…

Madotsuki nodded, like she heard the question only distantly.

'_It's terrible to be afraid of a friend's eyes, isn't it?'_

He looked ahead of himself. The reflection of the hallway's furniture, like desks, empty wheeled medical beds, and rows of chairs against the wall.

"...Simon. You're sweating."

Eh? Ah! Simon raised his hand up to his forehead, and wiped. Indeed, he was having a cold sweat.

"I didn't… really notice. The hospital… walls. So clean, but it.."

Simon trailed off.

'_It reminds me of hell.'_

The chair glided noiselessly over the white seamless tiles. Simon found himself shaking, the thin white night robe that the hospital gave to him not doing a great job at keeping Simon warm.

A nurse walked out of one door and moved into the next.

The wheelchair made just the slightest sound of metal upon metal as it was piloted towards the room provided to Simon by the hospital.

Eventually, they found it. The door was thick, wooden, and almost a completely featureless rectangle.

"… Hey, Madotsuki. I… got a question."

Madotsuki paused in opening the door, one hand on the handle and one on the wall.

"...Yeah? What's up?"

_The voids are staring at me again._

Simon turned his head away.

"...When you… dream..."

He looked back at the door.

"You told me you see doors just like this one, right?"

Madotsuki thought for a moment.

"Well, yes. More or less.

…

Why do you ask?"

Simon looked at his medical wristband.

"How do you..."

'_Just say it, Simon. It's not that hard. Why is it so hard to speak? I can't say what I want to say since the accident. Why does my chest keep hurting so much? Why can't I think? Why is there this haze over everything?'_

Simon summoned up the willpower to look her directly in her eyes. He felt his mind protest as he did so, but at least it gave him some sort of focus. Anything to remove this God-forsaken haze.

"How do you know behind this door isn't another dream? How can you tell the difference? … From when you're awake, or asleep."

Madotsuki blinked. Once, then after a while, twice. She looked up in thought.

"...That's a good question. Sometimes I can't, Simon. But if I had to pick one thing that tells me the difference..."

She looked back at him.

"...Well, I can't think of much. I guess I don't drink or eat as much in my dreams. And dreams are more fun, I think. I'd dream all the time, if I could. Wouldn't you?"

She wheeled Simon into the dark room, which lit up as if by magic as soon as they walked a few feet in. The motion sensor must have detected them. She set his wheelchair besides the bed, and brought some medicine back from a nearby table.

"… I… I don't agree, Maddy. My dreams… must be a lot different… from yours."

Simon looked down at his lap. Tears started welling up in his eyes.

"There's this fog over everything. It keeps following me in my dreams, Maddy. The… the fog, Maddy… I can't remember faces, people… and… and their names, and school lessons. It's like the fog from my dreams is… following me… And I'm having trouble telling… telling which is which."

Simon looked up at her, and her concerned face, which made him look back down at his lap again in shame.

"I… I'm afraid, Maddy. What happens when I start forgetting myself? What happens then?"

Madotsuki sat on the bed, looking at him, and then swooped him into a tight hug.

"Simon… That won't happen. I'll be here with you, and so will the rest of the hospital. I'll let the psychiatrist know in the morning, and we'll start doing memory games, okay? I won't let you forget a thing, if I can help it."

Simon hugged her back, crying into her shoulder, his breath heaving, muffled gasps erupting from his mouth after every exhale.

"I know I had so many friends, Maddy. I can't..._**ha-hah-huh**_… I can't remember what they looked like. **I CAN'T REMEMBER WHAT THEY LOOKED LIKE!**"

Madotsuki patted Simon's back.

"It'll be okay. I'm here for you. I'm not leaving you, Simon. I'm here for you."

* * *

I had a bit of a breakdown today. I told my medical porter a few things I maybe shouldn't have. I won't be so careless next time. I have to maintain myself, and have strength of mind, if I'm going to be able to recover. That's what Dr. Purnell told me, anyhow. I intend to follow his instructions as best I can.

I want to get better. I want to be ridden of this damned fog, shadowing every thought, every memory. Every feeling. There's this fog. I swear, it wasn't there before the accident. It just appeared, and now everything's losing detail. I saw a painting today. I think it was a… Van Gogh? Yes, it was, it was a Van Gogh painting. I love Van Gogh. His details and artistic vision are amazing. But I saw one of his paintings earlier today and all I could think of was "Hills". What the fuck is wrong with me? I want it to stop. I want the fog to stop. Even now, I stay up, at 2 AM, only because I'm afraid. I'm afraid of the fog getting me while I'm asleep, while my guard is down. I have the television on to keep me up. I don't know if it's making me feel better or worse.

I don't want to forget anything else. I really, really want to stay. I want to be here, wherever "here" is. I don't want to be nowhere.

Even the feeling of being tired, my eyelids are so heavy, now terrifies me. Because of the fog. I should sleep. I should go to bed so I can have some moment of clarity in the morning. Perhaps then I can think of a way to get rid of the fog.

I'm so tired.


	3. Chapter 3

"God, my head…"

Simon sat up in his bed, kicking the covers off and letting his legs dangle in the air. He held his head between his hands, a migraine that felt like brainfreeze held his attention hostage as his tongue told him about the faint taste of artificial lemons.

_'Did I eat something recently? … No, I would remember if I did.'_

He looked around his room. Directly across from him, a white, five-section bookshelf filled with medical textbooks and fairy tales. On the right, a normal-sized television with a loop antenna on the top of it, the heavy weight resting on a small, dark IKEA TV stand. To his left, a tan wooden nightstand, a lamp, and right above his bed were two windows, showing a heavy white mist and trees outside.

"Still foggy outside… But then, that's Karlstad for you."

He sat in his bed for a while, staring outside the window, before his phone screen lit up, vibrating a few times in short succession.

_'Hm? Is my mother texting me? It's been a while… Hope nobody's died.'_

He grabbed his Motorola phone and pressed a few buttons, reading over his texts.

* * *

**23/6 01:37 AM**

**Sent From:**

**+00 ****46 54-83 96**

They're waiting for you.

* * *

**23/6 01:37 AM**

**Sent From:**

**+00 ****46 54-83 96**

Read the book.

* * *

**23/6 01:38 AM**

**Sent From:**

**+00 ****46 54-83 96**

Where do you think you can go from here?

* * *

"What the hell…?"

He looked over the messages a few more times.

_'Probably just a prank… or someone on way too many narcotics is misdialing.'_

Simon mulled it over. After a while, he decided to text them back, thumbs rapidly pressing keys.

* * *

**23/6 01:43 AM**

**Send To:**

**+00 ****46 54-83 96 **

I think you got the wrong guy. I haven't seen this number before.

* * *

"And… Send."

An icon of an envelope travelling along some arrows to a cell tower appeared, but after a bit over twenty seconds, it stopped.

No Service Available

"No serv-… What? I'm in Karlstad. There's a cell tower just a few kilometers away from campus. That's not possible."

Simon looked at the top right of his phone screen, and sure enough, there was only one bar on the service available icon.

_'Maybe they just started doing maintenance. Perhaps all the messages at once were just part of a glitch in the system. Making sure everything gets where it needs to go before the tower reboots.'_

_'But if that's the case, why at 1:37 AM? Wouldn't something like 2 or 3 exactly make more sense than-'_

Simon's thoughts were interrupted by another 'message received' icon on his phone. He looked at the top right of his phone. There was a red 'X' going through where the service bars would be.

* * *

**23/6 01:47 AM**

**Sent From:**

**-96 83-54 46 00**

I don't know if you'll be able to get this, but you need to run. The Fog isn't safe anymore.

* * *

Simon felt a bit of cold sweat around his back and head that he didn't feel before. He scowled at his phone.

_'Definitely a prankster, then. Someone with nothing better to do.'_

Simon sighed, and got up, walking over to his dresser to get his daily wear out of the drawers. A long sleeved white t-shirt, Freedom Festival's grey twenty-fifth anniversary hoodie, some black jeans he dyed himself, a pair of wool fingerless gloves, and his messenger bag, filled with some daily essentials.

_'Sort of like myself, I guess. Now's as good a time as any for a walk.'_

He went to open his bedroom door, but then heard a thump on the roof, like someone had thrown a large snowball, and a smaller thump on the floor behind him.

He spun around on his heels, not seeing anything. Then, he took his phone out of a pouch on the messenger bag, and hit a button on it. The darkness became less concealing, and a thin, short cone of light shone revealed the floor. He slowly turned the phone, from right, to left, revealing his room centimeter by centimeter. Dead silence surrounded him, the only sound in the room was his own slowed breathing and rapid heartbeat.

Bookshelf. Nightstand. Windows. Bed. Heater.

Nothing. There was nothing in the room. He breathed a sigh of relief, and went to put his phone away, but his arm yanked back to a spot on the floor.

There. Right on the floor, in front of the bookshelf, was a small and dark blue, hard canvas-bound book.

_'...Do I own any books like this?'_

He walked slowly towards the book, squatting down towards the floor. Slowly, his hand reached forward for the book. Right before skin touched paper, he stopped.

_'...This doesn't feel right. It's just a book, so why does it feel so...'_

A deep sense of dread filled him. He swallowed, shut his eyes, and grabbed it.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. The book was in his hand. The dread was gone. He inspected the book. The title and author was shown, in faded gold lettering, and an image of a partly opened door, the tarnished gold ink inlaid between the door frame and the door giving the illusion of faint light beyond it.

_''Unalive', by Ian Drömma. Obviously a pen name. I've never heard of this guy. Wonder what it's about.'_

Simon began to open the book, when he heard more heavy snowballs-against-cars type of noises coming from his roof, each around a second or two apart. He looked out the window. Nothing. Just a heavy fog, and barren trees. Simon held his breath.

The noises became more and more distant, until they stopped completely.

**'...Am I being robbed?'**

Simon reached into his messenger back for his pocket knife. He pulled on the same pair of socks and velcro snow boots he wore yesterday, putting everything on within seconds.

_'You've picked the wrong dorm.'_

Simon went out into the wooden-floored hallway, and briskly, silently, walked to the door. He looked out the peephole, and saw nothing. Only the doormat, the fenced dock, and fog.

_'...If there was a time to rob someone, now would be a good time for it. Maybe even the best… Shit, this is such a bad idea.'_

His heart pounded in his chest. They could be right to the side of the door, ready to kill him. He wouldn't even see it coming. He held the knife in his right hand, blade pressed against his forearm, hidden from sight, at least from the front. His left hand held his phone, flashlight function at full brightness.

_'...Here goes nothing.'_

He flung open the door and leaped out, looking to his right and his left.

_'…A blue porchlight and a wood rocking chair.'_

There was a path of raw, interlinking stones, leading down, and around, the dorms, right at the base of the wooden stairs leading up to the porch. Around the dorms' sides there were high streetlamps, giving a breadcrumb trail of light to follow. He listened, and heard nothing but a light breeze.

_'...It came from the roof. I have to get up there somehow.'_

The dorms were only one floor, and weren't made for the roof to be accessible. Made of cheap insulating polymer, and the roof of slightly molded sheet metal, he kept towards the walls, the obscured, foggy, lamp-lit stone path giving way to wide-brimmed spruce trees and bare oaks trees just to the right and left of the paths. He circled the entire dorm, and found no footprints. Every slow footstep he took in the snow, a soft crunch was made, but it was too loud for his liking. There were no footprints anywhere, and he felt a sense of dread rising.

Eventually, he came to a particularly large oak tree, and saw some disturbed snow nearby. His eyes traced the branches, stretching over a leaning lamp like tentacles reaching around the sun, choking the life out of it, light barely escaping the wooden tangles. That the oak hadn't ever burned… It was a wicked and jagged tree. And the thick branch, supported by the slanted lamp, stretched right over the roof.

_'...Att våga är att tappa fotfästet en stund, att inte våga är att förlora sig själv.'*_

Having motivated himself, he began to climb up the oak. It was a slow thing. His snow boots were not meant for climbing, having too much room at the end of his toes, the ends of the boot's toe space being too wide, too tall. He hugged the tree, and shimmied up, until he started to meet branches. Then, he hugged the tree with his legs, careful to test branches by pulling before committing to a climb, and never resting all his weight through one limb. Eventually, he got to the branch above the roof.

_'Now is the moment of truth. Good thing for this fog. Always was afraid of hights. I can barely see the ground.'_

He walked, slowly, balancing on the branch like a tightrope. Amazingly, it held his weight. He walked, one step after the other.

**"**_W-_**HOAH SKITE!"**

A sudden torrent of wind blew both his legs out from underneath him, but his gloved hands caught the branch. His left leg smacked hard against the light pole, getting a cry of pain out of him.

He knew a light pole was at least twenty feet. He was at the top of it. The fall would break his leg if he let go. The wind chill felt like it was a wolf biting into him and not air, as the sudden blizzard began. His messenger bag hung by his neck.

"...Get it together Simon. You… you got this. One hand… at a time."

Fingers barely responding, not feeling a single thing from them, Simon hanged from the branch, slowly, agonizingly, shimmied to his left, making sure to see and verify with his eyes(a hard task through the fog) that each hand was, in fact, holding onto the thick branch, before exhaling the freezing air in his lungs. He did it every time he moved even slightly over. If he fell in this cold, unending blizzard… That was it. The end of Simon's story. Game Over.

But, amazingly, he did make it to the almost end of the branch, and let himself drop onto the roof.

Unfortunately for Simon, it was not a controlled drop.

His arms gave out, and his ribs were the first thing that landed onto the roof. He felt several bones break, and his eyes squeezed shut in agony, his lungs in a fight between coughing and breathing in the way-too-cold air, never getting enough of anything to stop the cycle of not-quite-getting-oxygen.

Then, suddenly, the black of his squeezed-shut eyelids became a purplish-red.

_'Ooooohhhhh… what the jävlar is… it hurts… so much…'_

Fighting against the urge to squeeze his eyes shut to protect them from the freezing blizzard, he opened his eyes slowly.

In the air, the source of the light behind his eyes, was a Goddamn ufo.

Three beams of light, all focused on him, were coming from the saucer. Gradually, aliens came down, and looked at him, probing him frantically.

**"Ooooh no… oh no no no… Don't touch- DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME! DON'T TOUCH MY FUCKING BACK! ÅSNA! GRIS FROM SPACE! JAVLAR'S FICKEN LAP HUNDS!"**

Simon felt them grab him, and suddenly he became very weightless, floating up into the UFO.

**"Gott in Himmel, why is it so fucking bright?"**

And when he finally went pass the metal grate, opening up from all directions, he was tossed unceremoniously, painfully, into an unlit metal box.

**_"Where are you taking me?! What's going on?!"_**

He received no answer. Every so often the aliens would shake the box from the outside, laughing at his pain. His vision would become plain white during these times.

And when it did, he saw her… No, saw it.

A corpse. A somehow familiar girl's corpse, hair dishevelled and head bleeding from some unknown injury.

Her dead eyes were staring right into his. And they followed him.

* * *

Simon awoke with a start, gasping.

_**"GUUUU."**_

He dryly coughed several times, before punching his chest.

He stared up at the ceiling. Right behind him, just like his dorm, there was a window. But he couldn't look through it. For all he knew, it was a blank white canvas, just like the hospital walls.

He looked around at room surrounding him.

A desk. A nightstand. A window. A bed. A heater.

_'Maddy's not here.'_

He closed his eyes for a bit more.

_'So there's no point being awake.'_

He grabbed his covers, and pulled them up. His arms must have moved them around in his sleep.

_'I guess I can see why you like dreams so much, Maddy.'_

He opened his eyes, and looked at the dream journal. It was just beyond his reach, on a satchel fixed to the back of his wheelchair. A completely lost cause. Since he couldn't write it down, he decided he would just commit to memory as much of the dream as he could.

_'In a dream, you can go anywhere you want.'_

* * *

_*To dare is to lose your foothold for a moment, to not dare is to lose yourself._


End file.
